


The Haven

by VelvetKey



Series: The Silent Protectors [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-14
Updated: 2002-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:05:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetKey/pseuds/VelvetKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>One Moment, Untainted.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Haven

For me it has been far too long. For them, far less time. I have returned, as I once promised not to do, but could not help myself in doing. Yet still I balance upon the edge of what is and what could be. The choice is and forever shall be mine.

My oath however, holds true. I shall not use it, I cannot wield the power that many of my world take for granted. I am still their protector. One of the many, I know. But there are still far too few of us to combat every whim of my people.

I understand why so many give in, for I have often had the same thoughts as they. But to act upon such thoughts is where my line has been drawn. There are some things I cannot tolerate, and so I turn against them, aiding those who fall prey as best I can.

Lightning cracks fearsomely outside the rain-streaked glass of the window I watch from. I have lit the lanterns, and find myself waiting with forced patience, for I know they shall come. Every creature with common sense has sought their burrow at this time, for the sky is dark as night and the howling wind throws the rain mercilessly against my home.

Yet for those who have no shelter to seek, this storm promises misery indeed. The flat plains of Hollin boast no comfort to the weary traveler, and the place I have chosen for my deed stands out as a welcome oasis.

Another fork of lightning slithers across the sky, and in the brief illumination my eyes spot a line of moving figures . . . and one pony. I know not what thoughts plague those whom I expect, but the weather outside shall make up their minds soon enough.

I have taken pains that they shall not know me, though they slumbered when I saw them last. My disguise I chose well, neither ugly nor beautiful, but the well-weathered face of a woman reaching the end of middle age. My long, coarse hair is streaked with gray from the temples, and the patched skirt that swirls about my ankles suggests my peasant status. Anonymity is key, though my innermost heart desires otherwise.

I cast a glance about the cozy cottage I have taken to call my own for this brief night. Heat from the small stove in the corner warms the front of the room, and I thoughtfully set a teakettle to boil as I idly putter about, straightening chairs while I wait. At the back wall a fireplace burns merrily, and I skirt the kitchen table on my way to check the broth in the stewpot that hangs over the crackling flames.

A resounding crash of thunder nearly drowns out the signal my ears have been straining for. Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, I seize a lantern from the window and stride to the door, opening it barely a crack. My breath freezes in my throat as I find Gandalf the Grey studying me as suspiciously as I am him. In the darkness I cannot see beyond his bent and dripping hat, yet I know the others to be with him.

"'Tis a foul night you have chosen for a stroll," I greet him lightly.

His brow furrows, and he runs one hand through his sodden beard. "I fear I agree," he responds. "I and my companions wish to seek shelter from this infernal storm, if it will not trouble you overmuch."

"How many companions do you bring?" I ask questions, though I already know the answers. I would not have the Fellowship on their guard in my home, for it is to be a haven for them, not an imagined prison.

"Nine, and one faithful pony. I am Gandalf, and we shall trouble you no further if you decline." His grave blue eyes study my intense green ones. I sense that he is searching for something . . . or has guessed my true nature.

"Well, Master Gandalf, it would be ill of me to turn you and your companions away in time of need, and my empty house needs filling." A smile creeps over my face. "Yet I am afraid your loyal beast must reside the night in the stable, for I have not the proper accommodations for him here."

His eyes twinkle then, and I take it as a sign of acceptance. Stepping back, I open the door all the way, studying the gathered crowd of drowned people on my doorstep. I hold the lantern above my head, gazing at each in turn. A chill wind knifes through the warm house, and I don't waste one more moment.

"Welcome friends of Gandalf. I bid you to enter and take rest here until the storm abates. I welcome your company gladly." I smile again as Merry and Pippin push their way to the front, curly hair dark and slicked down against their heads. They hold out their hands hungrily to the warmth of my house, and I step aside, instructing them to wipe their feet and give up their dripping cloaks, hanging my light from an overhead hook as I speak.

"May I have your names, young masters?" I inquire as I attempt to wring some of the moisture out of their discarded garments.

Merry pauses to bow to me. "Meriadoc Brandybuck." Pippin copies his cousin's gesture, "Peregrin Took."

I curtsy as seriously as they bow. "My name is Keridwen, but I much prefer it if you call me Dwen." To myself I wonder if they will give me their nicknames, for if they do not I know my tongue shall fail and reveal me.

Their round faces light up at my confession of a shorter name. "Merry and Pippin then, Lady Dwen!" Merry says happily.

I laugh softly. "Well then, Merry and Pippin, I'll thank you to call me just Dwen. Seat yourselves by the fire while I see to your other companions." They are in no hurry to disobey me, stretching their hands and feet out to the small stove in ecstatic pleasure.

I turn to observe the next member of the Fellowship cross the threshold. Boromir stamps his feet on the rug and tosses his head to view me and his surroundings better. His hazel eyes are quick and sharp, even as he moves to step into the room fully.

I nod to him, but fall back into my role. "Please, good sir, have a care and remove your muddy boots before entering." I raise an eyebrow, giving him a look so matronly and reprimanding that the son of Denethor smiles faintly and complies. I am nearly sure he would have ducked his head as well, much as an errant child might have done, and my expression softens.

"Yes, ma'am," Boromir replies. His breeding prevents him from addressing me by the name I have given, yet nevertheless I correct him.

"Dwen, my lord. Keridwen if a more formal name must be given. Such titles as 'ma'am' are forbidden in my household, for it makes me feel old."

"I am Boromir, Keridwen," he answers quietly, perhaps fearing to upset me. I laugh again, to allay his trepidation.

"Do not fear me, Boromir. I do not bite. Give me your cloak and shield and then please warm yourself by the stove." I do not ask for his sword, as much as I detest the thought of weaponry in my house. Every member of the Fellowship has the right to be mistrustful, I know that well. Yet as if sensing my thoughts, the man of Gondor unbuckles his blade and hangs it beneath his cloak before moving to a chair.

There is a low guffaw of laughter from behind me and I turn and lower my eyes to see Gimli enter, rain streaming off his helmet. His red beard is rather bedraggled, but his eyes are alight with merriment. I guess at the cause of his laughter.

"My rule about dirty boots applies to you as well, Master Dwarf," I tell him archly.

"Gimli, son of Glóin at your service," he responds, sweeping off his helm and bowing grandly. Deftly I pluck it from him and hang it from a peg. With a startled look, the dwarf removes his boots and his over-armor. He keeps his axe at his side as he stumps towards the welcome heat, seating himself in a lower chair next to Boromir. I think my commanding air has him a bit confused at the moment, but I am distracted from Gimli as the Ringbearer steps through my door.

His wide blue eyes seem to take in everything at once, and I introduce myself yet again, even as I help him out of his cloak.

"My name is Frodo," he tells me simply. There is much I would say and ask of him, but I catch myself in time. To demand things of Frodo, the reason for the Fellowship, would be to invite feelings of suspicion, and in my haven for them, I will have none. I merely direct the cold hobbit to the stove, where he sits on the floor between Merry and Pippin, who are having an animated conversation about food.

Gandalf follows Frodo, and I do not need to ask him to remove his boots. He hangs up his hat and sets his staff in a corner without a second thought, squeezing the water from his beard as he goes. "What a splendid home," he compliments, and I feel my heart warm and swell beneath his praise. A brief blush rises to my face before I gather my wits about me and reply.

"I thank you, Gandalf. It has belonged to my family for many years. Please find a pleasant nook in which to make yourself comfortable." I turn away to see who is next through my door, but I still feel his probing gaze upon me. I wonder what he seeks to find.

Yet suddenly I find the scrutiny of the wizard the thing furthest from my mind as he steps gracefully into the comfort of my cottage. He does not look around, yet I know he already has memorized every detail of the house. I am speechless once again as Legolas Greenleaf bows to me.

Reflexively I curtsy, dropping my eyes as one unworthy to look upon one of the Eldar.

"Heruamin." The word escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I mentally berate myself. How could I be so stupid as to use the familiar greeting with someone who knows me not at all?

The fair prince of Mirkwood pauses thoughtfully, as if attempting to recall something. Apparently the matter has escaped his notice, for he returns his attention to me. Something about that gaze causes me to grow warm all over, and I hastily bolster my resolve before my reaction is noticed.

"Arwen en amin. Amin naa Legolas Greenleaf." His voice is soft yet powerful as he answers and I harshly bring myself back to the present.

"I beg your forgiveness, Legolas. I know but a few words of Elvish, and did not mean to insult you by being informal."

"Nay, Keridwen. There is naught to ask my pardon for. You have lent us your shelter, and for that I thank you." His words gladden me greatly even as I repeat my earlier instructions to Boromir, though I know with his keen hearing he did not miss them. I coax his bow and quiver from him, hanging them up alongside everyone else's wet things, wondering somewhere in the back of my mind where I came across the audacity to speak to an elf this way.

As I drape Legolas's dark green over-tunic on a peg, I recognize where my nerve stems from: the need to maintain my character and not fall to the power that so often calls to me. Turning my thoughts aside, I peer into the sheeting rain to see Sam holding onto Bill's halter loyally. The shadow beside him must be Aragorn, and another bolt of lightning confirms my hunch.

Snatching my own coat from a hook, I throw it on quickly and pull down the lantern from where I had hung it earlier. "Gandalf, I trust you to keep these wet miscreants in line while I see your faithful pony to the stable." I smile at the startled looks on the hobbit's faces. Boromir returns my expression, and Gimli merely grunts from where he has lit his pipe and is puffing away happily. "There is hot water for tea on the stove; the leaves can be found on the table, should any of you desire some."

The wizard cocks a bushy eyebrow at me. "I shall attempt to maintain some semblance of order in your absence, Keridwen."

I duck out the door, lantern firmly clenched in my right hand, before anyone else can add a remark. Once outside, cold and darkness seem to close around me, but I march purposefully through the thickening mud. "My name is Dwen, and I'll take your pony to my stable." It is much too cold to beat around the bush, but as I reach to take Bill's harness, Sam speaks up.

"Miss Dwen? I'd like to see to Bill myself, if you don't mind." The hobbit shivers as another gust of frigid wind sweeps around my house. "You see, he's a bit frightened by the storm and all . . ."

I touch Sam's arm in a gesture of understanding. "It is quite all right. Follow me closely, however, for I don't want you stepping in my garden in the dark. Squashed mushrooms don't make a very good soup." I begin to swing around, but Aragorn's quiet voice catches me off-guard. He is so silent and hidden that I had forgotten he was there.

"I am Strider, and I shall help Sam with the packs."

"As you wish," I acquiesce, eager to get out of the unrelenting deluge. "Come quickly. I do not fancy catching a cold."

They trail me closely as I wade across the soggy ground. I lift my lantern higher as I reach the small out-building that is the stable, fumbling with numbing fingers at the latch. My own mount, Wyn, neighs loudly as I enter, and I shush her calmly before pointing out an empty stall to Sam. I hold the light as Aragorn and the hobbit unload Bill and then rub him down. I fill the water trough and pitch some sweet hay into the stall, patting the pony's nose affectionately.

As Bill begins to eat without a second thought, I push open the door again and turn back to my companions. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

The warmth of the house enfolds me as I enter in, shedding my coat before hanging the lantern back up. The three warming hobbits look over from where they are beginning to doze off in front of the stove. Gimli pays me no attention as he chews on his pipe thoughtfully, his beard starting to dry out.

A throat clears to my right, and I turn to see Legolas eyeing me from where he is assisting Gandalf with the tea. "Should you not remove your muddy boots?" he asks, eyes dancing mischievously.

His innocent question sparks a laugh from Boromir, who quickly sobers as I glance in his direction, one eyebrow raised. "I do believe you're correct, Legolas. Everyone should have left their boots by the door."

I see Aragorn freeze out of the corner of my eye, where he was approaching the stove much like a fly to light. Carefully he backtracks, casting me a humble look as he removes his offending footwear. I fight off the urge to laugh as I hang up Sam's cloak, then shed my own waterlogged shoes.

"Have you had supper?" My innocuous question brings the three dozing hobbits fully awake, Pippin the fastest.

"No," he replies for all of them, eyes hopeful.

"We would not want to trouble you with feeding all of us," Gandalf begins, but I do not let him finish.

"I am used to cooking for a large family, Gandalf. I am sure preparing supper for you and your companions shall be easier, however, for I do not suspect you to be as picky as they." Again a smile creeps over my features. "Besides, unless I am much mistaken, all your supplies are locked in my stable, and I for one do not feel like venturing out to get them."

With that, I turn and begin to rummage through my pantry, removing things as I think I need them. Soon several carrots, potatoes, stalks of celery, onions and turnips cover the table. Lastly, I reach deep into a cupboard and pull out various spices, and a burlap sack.

Meticulously I clean and cut the vegetables, adding them to the still- simmering broth which I cooked the meat for the stew in an hour before the Fellowship ended up on my doorstep. Halfway through my task, Sam and Merry offer to help me, and I accept gratefully. I laugh when the onions make them cry, even when the powerful fumes overwhelm me as well.

I add several seasonings to taste, stirring the stew and humming a catchy tune to myself. Then I open the nondescript burlap bag, my eyes unconsciously straying to Pippin. The instant I withdraw my hand from within, Merry and Sam's eyes widen, and they too look at the young hobbit. Smiling so wide my face hurts, I hand them each a mushroom, then nonchalantly slice the rest into the stewpot.

As the smell permeates the entire room, Pippin shoots to his feet like he's sat on a prickly pinecone. Gimli and Aragorn hurriedly pull their feet out of the way as the Took bounds to my side, just as I finish off the bag.

"Mushrooms?" he asks in a scandalized voice. "You have mushrooms?" The longing in his eyes is so desperate that I feel badly about not saving him one.

"Yep, Pip, and because we helped, Dwen gave us each one," Merry tells him, nibbling slowly on his prize just to tantalize his cousin.

Gandalf chuckles at the look of suffering on Pippin's face. "That will teach you helpfulness, young Peregrin."

"Do not worry, Pippin. The stew will be ready in a little while, and you can try and pick out all the mushrooms you want," I reassure him, now pressing bread dough into pans and placing them in the warm embers of the fire to bake.

Gandalf and Legolas have found mugs in which to pour the tea, and I help pass them out, lastly taking one for myself. As I give Boromir his cup, my hand brushes lightly against his tunic, and I discover that it's soaked. My indignation is only furthered when first Frodo and then Aragorn sneezes.

Setting my tea down with a clunk, I march up the ladder in the rear of the room that leads to the loft, candlestick in hand. My first armload consists of blankets, which I carry down and stack on the table.

"I am going upstairs to find you all dry clothes. When I come down again, I expect to find all your wet things piled on a chair. I will not have any of you catch cold, do I make myself clear?" My disguise as an older woman helps persuade them, and those who do not immediately agree quickly reverse their opinion as I glare at them in a mock-threatening manner.

Taking great care as I ascend to the loft again, I open first one trunk and then another. All my brothers and sisters things are here, and I find a good selection of suitable shirts and trousers that should fit the hobbits and Gimli well in the oldest of the trunks. Then I rifle through the clothes my older siblings have left behind, choosing with care as I try to remember the Fellowship's exact proportions.

Finally I close the trunks and gather my large collection of old, yet still useable garments. Climbing down the ladder, I see nine blanket-wrapped figures, some giving me reproving glares. I remind myself of who I appear to be to them as I hand out dry clothes. I cannot let my resolve to break now, for then it breaks everything . . .

To hide my faltering emotions, I quickly scoop up the mound of wet things and set about hanging them near the stove and the fireplace to dry. Then I purposely turn my back to stir the stew, ignoring the rustling behind me.

When at last I deem it safe, I turn back to see a much-transformed Fellowship. Gimli is wearing a patched pair of trousers that lends him a 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarves' air. The hobbits all have identical white shirts, but Merry's is missing a few buttons, while Frodo's buttons do not match. I recognize my little sister's sewing talent, for she never could understand why all buttons on a shirt had to be the same.

Boromir's thick woolen shirt looks a bit stretched across the shoulders, even though he is wearing the largest one I could find. Aragorn's leggings are short for his long legs, and the worn knees have been reinforced with some kind of red material. Legolas's shirt is slightly too large, but the lace-up front suits him.

Yet it is Gandalf who surprises me most. The wizard looks much younger, garbed as he is in green trousers and an off-white shirt. His form no longer hidden by his grey robe, I can see a slender and obviously strong body. It is no small wonder to me how Gandalf can survive the wrath of a Balrog and live to tell the tale.

"Is the stew ready yet?" Pippin's plaintive voice interrupts my observations.

I make a show of stirring some more and lifting out a ladle-full to examine and taste. "A few more minutes," I tell him, though I know the smell of mushrooms is almost more than he can bear. "Why don't you help me set the table?" I take a sip of my now-cold tea before handing the hobbit a stack of dishes to set around.

The bread is finished, and I remove it from the fire before placing silverware on the table. As Pippin and I work, I feel more than one set of hungry eyes upon me, waiting for me to pronounce the words.

I shake my head and laugh to myself. "All right, bring your chairs to the table, supper's ready." I do not have to ask twice. It appears that Boromir and Aragorn are at least as ravenous as Merry and Pippin. I deftly slice the bread and set it on the table before ladling the food into a smaller pot. Making a slow circuit around the table, I serve the stew, reminding myself to give Pippin extra mushrooms. For this time I can do it. Inasmuch as my wishes last time could not be fulfilled, this time, under an anonymous disguise, I can tell them what I could not before.

As an afterthought, I reach into the pantry again and pull out a keg. Gimli's eyes seem to pop before growing appreciative. Merry and Pippin stop mid-chew.

"I hope you've all finished your tea." There isn't a drop of the brew left after I finish my sentence. I restrain another laugh before pouring my dinner guests some ale. Of them, only Legolas declines. By the time the stewpot is empty and all that remains of the bread is crumbs, the Fellowship is quite satisfied.

I have been fending off compliments all throughout the meal, though I know my stew is nothing special. Hunger makes the best sauce, someone said. I could have boiled tree bark with a little meat and they still would have thought it to be wonderful. The hobbits offer to do the dishes, and at their grateful smiles, all I can do is agree. I rotate the drying clothes near the fireplace, and feed the flames some more wood, stoking the embers.

I turn back to see Merry spraying Sam with water and Frodo attempting to strangle Pippin with the drying cloth. The burden of the Ring does not seem so heavy tonight, not here in my haven. It is almost as if the hobbits are back in the Shire, with no knowledge of Sauron's One Ring. My smile saddens as I think of how the Shire will be the next time the hobbits return home. There is so much ahead of them . . .

Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli are playing dice at the cleared table. As nearly as I can tell, pipeweed seems to be of the greatest value. Boromir sits nearby, sharpening a dagger and watching the proceedings warily, as if trying to decide whether he should join in or keep a tight grip on his moneypouch. The shadow within him does not seem near this evening. He is now just a man, focused only on the cares of the moment. He is not the son of the Steward of Gondor, he is merely Boromir. He does not look for tomorrow, and I am pleased at his happiness, no matter how brief.

Tears spring unbidden to my eyes, and I look quickly away, striding to put more wood in the stove. As I do, I find a pair of intense blue eyes studying me. Blinking aside my distress, I turn away from Legolas's scrutiny and poke at the fire before placing the logs inside and straightening.

He has not moved from his chair, yet I feel as if he has somehow gotten closer. "What troubles you, Keridwen?" he asks softly, so that his voice does not carry. I realize how foolish I was to think that I could hide my emotions from an elf.

"It is nothing, Legolas. Merely the smoke from the stove." It is a lie, and I know that he knows as much. Yet he does not press the issue as I turn away. "I must go see to beds for you."

"I shall accompany you."

"No," I said a bit more forcefully than necessary. "I am quite capable, and you are tired from your journey. I am more than glad to be of service." Swiftly I escape up to the loft, where I collapse against a supporting beam. If there ever is a time to succumb to revealing myself and touching that forbidden power, it is when I am with Legolas. He is the one I admire most, the one I had taken pains to protect myself from. I do not want it to come to naught now.

The beds have already been made, but I turn down the covers and fluff the pillows anyway, needing some excuse to be by myself for a few moments. I ask myself if it was worth it, creating this illusion. My answer, no matter the way I look at it, is in the form of four hobbits attempting to wash the dishes. It is enough for me to see such antics to know that I have done the right thing.

My faith restored in my purpose, I dig through one of the trunks, unearthing an old game I and my siblings liked to play as children. Gripping the crude board in one hand, and the sack of pebbles in the other, I descend the ladder, noting that Gandalf has the hobbits well in hand. Unobtrusively I lay my possessions on the table, patiently retrieving an old book of lore and settling into a rocking chair. My skin prickles and I am aware that I am the object of someone's stare again. I try not to let it distract me as I turn the page, trying to immerse myself in the words. Yet I grow more unsettled moment by moment, until at last Merry's question saves me:

"What do you suppose these are for? Dwen?"

I glance up. "It is a game, Merry. I shall teach you if you wish." The hobbit brings me the board, which has two long cups carved at either end, and twelve smaller ones in two horizontal rows of six. I divide the pebbles by four into the smaller indentations, and explain the rules carefully. Merry grasps the concept all too well, for he beats me in the second game, and I give up as gracefully as I can manage, allowing Frodo to take over in my stead.

I retire again to the rocking chair, picking up my book where I left off. Gandalf rises suddenly and announces his intention of getting his forty winks. Apparently Gimli has bested him for the final time, and he has decided to go to bed before he loses anything else.

"I shall show you to your room if you like, Gandalf," I offer, rising. I direct him to the bedroom that belonged to my parents, and bid him good night. He studies me thoughtfully again, before I excuse myself. I catch a last glimpse of him shaking his head before closing the door.

Boromir and Gimli are the next to seek their beds, and I lead them up to the loft where all the children slept when they were young. Hanging a lantern from a hook, I shutter it partially and bid them both fond dreams. On my way down, I meet Aragorn herding the hobbits up. I point out to them the four small cots all in a row that are perfect, and the empty bed between Boromir and Gimli for the Ranger. Aragorn thanks me quietly and I descend once more.

I have scarcely reached the foot of the ladder when I hear the unmistakable sound of pebbles being spilled on the floor and Aragorn hissing loudly at the hobbits to put their game away. I bite my lip to keep from laughing too loudly and succeed in shaking in silent mirth. I look towards the stove to see Legolas still resting in his chair.

Banking the fire in the fireplace and extinguishing the lanterns illuminating the kitchen, I tell him good night, informing him where he may find his bed. He barely acknowledges me with a nod, and I retire gratefully, having no intention of sleep this night.

I awake perhaps two hours later. Peering out the window of my room, I see that the last vestiges of storm clouds have vanished, leaving the bright moon exposed. On silent feet I rise to do what I have done before. I climb the ladder without a sound, knowing every floorboard's secret.

I stop at the foot of the first bed, where Boromir is deeply asleep; I can tell as much from his soft snores. He lies on his side, one arm pillowing his head, and again I am reminded of the innocence of a child as I gaze at his contented face. I force myself to dwell on the happiness he has found this night, and not dreading on the fate that shall befall him.

Aragorn is sleeping on his stomach, one arm draping over the edge of the bed, lost in a careless slumber. He is ever the dark and mysterious one, and at least I can rejoice in knowing his end. He is one of the few whose destiny is clear before him, though the way is riddled with many obstacles to come. Yet always Strider will find strength.

Gimli's axe leans against the headboard of his bed, and in the faint light of the lantern I see that his red hair is sticking out in every possible direction. It is a side of the dwarf that I had never envisioned, and I am forced to bite my tongue to stifle my sudden urge to laugh.

Sam's tousled hair is the only visible sign of him, he is so deeply burrowed into his blankets. Yet this time I dare not speak, for in the confined loft I am afraid my voice will be too loud. I envy his faithful spirit and his doggedness in pursuing his duty. I bestow a smile and move on.

Frodo sleeps with a faint grin on his features, and my heart lifts. It is he who I worry most for, because he has such a long path to tread with an inestimable burden. Again I find solace in knowing what I have chosen to do this night was the right thing. My warm abode and cheerful watch-care has all been for the better. In the new dawn's light their hearts will be lightened, even as they move on to forget me yet again.

Such is my lot, and thus must it be.

The game I have taught the hobbits lies forgotten between the beds of Merry and Pippin. The first sighs in his sleep and shifts in his bed, dark lashes stark against his skin. I have gotten my wish for Merry: I have fallen prey to his streak of cleverness. I marvel to myself with no small amount of chagrin at how he bested me in our second game. I, who have played since I was old enough to count!

Pippin is as deeply immersed in dreamland as Boromir, and his face bears an unmistakable look of happiness. He has no need to dream of mushrooms this evening, but there is little within me that doubts his mind dwells on food just the same. He is probably thinking of pleasanter times in the Shire, of the feasts and joyous celebrations. I pray he holds those memories close and treasures them always.

I turn to find the last bed empty, and I freeze in my tracks. Casting a furtive glance about for the prince of Mirkwood, I do not look far before I see the elf. He is resting on the curved sill of a circular window that admits the milky moonlight, knees drawn to his chest. I find myself lost again in his ageless beauty, in the smooth planes of his face. I know not what is within me that adores him so, yet I know my limit and I shall not cross it.

I hold my breath for what seems to be hours, but Legolas does not stir. I finally reassure myself that he has fallen asleep, and pluck up enough courage to stand a respectful distance opposite him.

There are words I would again say, different from the last I spoke, but growing from the same feelings that possess my heart.

"Nae saian luume', Legolas. Cormamin lindua ele lle au'. Aa' menealle nauva calen ar' malta. Quel esta, heruamin." My voice is barely above a whisper, and I falter as it cracks under the tears that gather. It is difficult for me to be so near, and yet so far.

I gaze at him one last time, admiring the way the star and moonlight seems to draw to him. Then gathering my resolve, I turn away.

A slender yet strong hand encircles my wrist in an iron grip. Involuntarily I gasp and press my free hand to my mouth so as not to inadvertently make any noise to wake the others. I spin slowly to see Legolas, bright eyes both curious and wary. I see the questions written upon his face, and somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder how I shall explain myself.

But we cannot talk here, and he knows as much. I try to free myself from his grasp, and he releases me, gesturing to the ladder. I pick my way carefully over the wooden floor before descending. Moving towards the stove at the front of the room, so as not to disturb Gandalf, I stoke the embers slowly, trying to come up with a likely tale as to my words. I feel Legolas's piercing gaze, and turn to find him in the chair he occupied earlier.

"You should return to bed, Legolas," I say, slipping into my disguise. I know I cannot bluff myself out of my mistake, but no harm comes from trying.

He stares me down coolly, and I struggle not to fidget beneath his scrutiny. "When first you greeted me your voice sounded familiar. A voice that visited me in my dreams and wished me safe travel."

I sit slowly in a chair opposite him, my body unconsciously tense. For all my disguise, my voice is the one trait I did not change. It is still as youthful as I am in reality, and I cringe at my neglect. I do not answer.

Legolas studies my face, reading my eyes like a book. "Was it you?"

One of his arrows could not be more direct. "I cannot lie to you," I say softly. "It was." I hang my head in shame, for I cannot bear to have been caught out. It has all come to ruin, all of it.

"You promised never to return." Gandalf's sudden condemning statement startles me, and I jump. I force myself to meet his cold eyes.

"I said I would leave them, that I am their protector. And so I kept my word. They came to me, to my haven. I protected them from the storm, as I saw was right." My words sound hollow to me, but I focus upon one thing: the smile I saw upon Frodo's face this evening.

Legolas's fine brows draw together. "Mithrandir? What know you of this?" I see the confusion on his fair face, but must leave him to discern the matter for himself.

"It is of no moment, Legolas. Return to your rest." Before the elf can protest, Gandalf chants a few words, and the prince of Mirkwood blinks, as if suddenly sleepy. He yawns and rises to obey the wizard, and that is the last I see of him as he scampers up the ladder.

Then Gandalf returns his attention to me. I brace myself for his rebuke. "You tempted fate once, why must you do it again?"

"Because they need strength and support, even if it comes from unlikely parties. Can you tell me that what I did this night was for the worse? Go to the loft and look upon them for yourself. Their dreams are untroubled, they rest in real beds, bellies full as they probably have not been for weeks. Can you say what I have done is ill?" There is a fire in my words that takes me aback, but I am defending my very soul.

He looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head. "No, I cannot. But you allow yourself too much devotion to him. He will rise in the morning, remembering your words as but a dream, yet if I had not woken, what would you have done?"

I lower my eyes. "I know not." Shamed beyond all shame, I cannot look up.

"I think that this must be your last journey."

My head comes up, and I know my features must be as agonized as my voice. "You would deny me my oath as protector?" He cannot do this to me, he cannot!

His eyes bore into my being. "You understand what you toy with, but you have not mastered control over it yet. Until that time, yes, I would deny you your oath." He rises and towers above me as I cower ashamedly in my chair.

Tears finally leak unchecked down my weathered face, running down the creased channels around my mouth. "You are ever wise, Gandalf the Grey. Do what you must then." I submit myself to his judgment, though it rends my very heart to do such a thing. He is sundering me from them, yet it is only what I deserve.

Gandalf chants again, and my sobs abate as a great weariness settles over my limbs. I fall into a deep sleep, knowing the end that shall come.

When I awake again, it is high noon, and they have departed. My haven stands as empty as when I first found it and molded it to my satisfaction. They have left nothing behind except for the mud in my front entrance, and rumpled sheets.

Though it is pointless, I begin to clean, even as my heart seems to break as I remember what transpired last night, before my plan fell to ruin. Tears blur my vision as I strip the beds and tidy the loft. My eye falls upon the crude board and sack of pebbles that kept the hobbits so occupied.

Wrenching my gaze away, I turn to look out the window Legolas had sat in. It seemed moments ago to me, yet at the same time, ages away. I had hoped for a fleeting instant that he had left something, then realize what I sound like.

Gandalf was correct. The power still tempts me, and I still fall prey to it. I make my decision.

The door is locked, and the windows are dark. Not a soul stirs within the haven.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Translations:  
 _My lord. (Familiar)_

_My lady. (Unfamiliar) I am Legolas Greenleaf._

_It has been too long, Legolas. My heart sings to see thee again. May your ways be green and golden. Rest well, my lord._

Header: _For Violet, my friend._

**Author's Note:**

> Original header: _~Ten' Helin, mellonamin.~_
> 
> Original Fanfiction.net stats:
> 
> Complete - Lord of the Rings - Fiction Rated: K - English - Drama/Angst - Chapters: 1 - Words: 6625 - Reviews: 25 - Updated: 8-14-02 - Published: 8-14-02


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